The Rancher's Dream

“Hush.” Crimson stopped the sentence in its tracks. She sat, and then she began arranging Molly in her baby seat. “Go fix your meringue, Mari. And when you get a minute I’ll take some of that stew.”

“Me, too.” Grant tossed his menu onto the table. “Gloomy days like this call for hot stew.”

Soon they were alone again, and Molly cooed contentedly. He leaned back in his chair and yawned, eyeing Crimson curiously. “Why don’t you take the job, Red? Unless you’re secretly loaded, you could use a new source of income.”

Crimson felt herself flushing. Secretly loaded? He was just kidding, of course. He couldn’t possibly know...

Her thoughts shot immediately to the life insurance check she always carried in her purse. It was hers, fair and square, made out to her, but she couldn’t have felt any guiltier if she’d acquired it at gunpoint.

“Oh, well.” She shrugged. “Sometimes, when you start doing the work you love for a paycheck, it ruins your pleasure.”

He frowned. “Baloney.”

He was right. It was nonsense. She would have adored working as a pastry chef—if she’d been able to do it with Clover. The two of them had dreamed of opening their own restaurant since they were toddlers making mud pies in the backyard. Even back then, Crimson had been the “sweet” cook. She’d decorated her mud pies with violets and rose petals and sprinkled her mother’s white beads of vermiculite over them for “sugar.”

But now that Clover was dead, Crimson had no desire to pursue the dream alone.

She had no right to.

“Come on—you know that’s absurd,” he went on, watching her as if he were trying to figure something out. “I still love the ranch. I might even love it more, actually, now that it’s a reality instead of a dream. Why on earth would getting paid to cook spoil your fun?”

“Never mind,” she said, bending over Molly with her napkin, though the baby was fine and didn’t need tending. “Maybe it wouldn’t. It’s just—don’t listen to everything Marianne says. She’s exaggerating. I’m nothing special in the kitchen.”

She began cooing to the baby, hoping to prevent Grant from pursuing the subject. And he got the message, of course. He was one of those rare men who could read nonverbal cues.

He dropped the topic. And he was kind enough not to discuss her getting fired, either. When the stew was served, they talked about his horses. He was in the early stages of building an Arabian breeding program, and one of his young fillies was turning out to be special. A three-year-old copper-colored beauty, her name was Cawdor’s Golden Dawn, though Grant called her Dawn.

It was kind of cute, how crazy he was about this horse. Even Crimson could see how beautiful Dawn was, and how elegant, but the bond between her and Grant was adorable. Grant obviously thought she’d hung the moon, and the feeling appeared to be mutual.

And of course Crimson wanted to hear about the foaling schedule. His main mare had delivered a promising little colt in April, which had been exciting for everyone at the ranch.

“So have you decided what to name the new colt?” Crimson knew he’d been trying to come up with the perfect name for days. She and Kevin had offered about a hundred suggestions, but nothing had hit the spot.

“Not yet. Kevin’s most recent suggestion is Kevimol, which he said was a brilliant combination of his name and Molly’s. But I think it sounds like a periodontal disease.”

He smiled, popping the last piece of bread into his mouth with gusto. He worked hard, and he could eat all day without putting an ounce of fat onto that lean, muscular frame, lucky devil. “Besides, what kind of egotist thinks I’m going to name my horse for him? Talk to Kevin about that, would you?”

Crimson laughed, but something about Grant’s easy assumption that she was the one who could make Kevin see reason left her uncomfortable.

She’d known Kevin almost two months now, ever since he’d shown up at Campbell Ranch, his four-month-old motherless baby in tow, asking Grant, his old college buddy, if he could crash there temporarily. Because Crimson and Grant were friends, Crimson had of course met Kevin, too.

They’d begun to date maybe a month ago—if dating was even the right word for this oddly platonic relationship they seemed to have forged.

She, at least, knew full well that the friendship would never be more than that. She’d known it almost from the start. She was half in love with Kevin’s baby, but she’d never be in love with Kevin himself.

She’d always assumed Kevin understood that. After all, he’d clearly just embarked on single parenthood. Though he never seemed to want to discuss the details of Molly’s mother, she deduced that the two had never married, and somehow he’d ended up with custody.

A daunting prospect, and a situation in which you wouldn’t want to take any new risks with lovers lightly. Crimson had assumed he couldn’t possibly be ready to start something serious.

Lately, though, she’d seen a look on his face...heard a tone in his voice...

She wondered whether Grant had seen and heard those things, too.

Well, bottom line, it was time to break it off before Kevin got the wrong idea. And if she was moving away from Silverdell, which she obviously should, that would be the easiest out, wouldn’t it?

She bent over the baby again, first taking care to tuck her gold necklace into her shirt. Molly had recently become fascinated with anything shiny, and consequently Crimson had stopped wearing most jewelry. Except the necklace, a small shamrock. That, she never removed.

“Where is Kevin, anyhow?” She glanced briefly at Grant and then returned her attention to Molly, who was starting to get fussy again. “Molly needs feeding. You dropped him at the law firm, right? I thought the meeting was supposed to be over by now.”

“Guess it ran late.” Grant leaned back in his chair and stretched. His impatience was palpable, which Crimson understood. Horse breeding was a demanding job, and he couldn’t afford to cool his heels in town all day just because his houseguest’s car was on the fritz and the man had hitched a ride into town.

“I certainly hope this law firm is paying him enough to buy a house, and a new car...and hire a nanny.” Grant raised one eyebrow. “I know you and I would both like to see the man move into a place of his own.”

Again, that tone—as if Crimson must be dying for some privacy with Kevin, so they could take their relationship to the next level.

If Grant only knew! The fact that Kevin lived in Grant’s spare bedroom was probably his most attractive quality. She lived in a tiny efficiency apartment with paper-thin walls and never, ever brought anyone home. So if Kevin didn’t have privacy, either...well, that settled the whole “will we or won’t we” debate before it could even get started.

She smiled neutrally. “I take it the charm of having a boarder is fading?”

“The charm of having a boarder is nonexistent.” Grant scooped up the check, waving off her protest. “It’s killing my love life. Correction—it’s already killed my love life. Ginny broke up with me last night, after about three hours of listening to Molly cry.”

Crimson wouldn’t have thought the woman was that foolish. She frowned. “Molly cried all night? Why? What was wrong?”

“Beats me. My guess is Molly’s an undercover operative with the morality police. Her assignment, and she’s definitely chosen to accept it, is to ensure I never have sex again.”

Crimson shook her head. “Seriously. Was she sick?”

“Seriously. She’s the president of the Abstinence Vigilantes.”

“Grant.”

He grinned. “She’s probably just teething. As I recall, this is about when the first ones start coming in. I told Kevin to buy one of those nasty plastic rings you can put in the freezer, but he hasn’t done it yet. Apparently, he’s the vice president of the abstinence club.”

As he recalled?

For a minute, she couldn’t move past that comment. What did he mean? Grant didn’t have children...

Or did he? Crimson hesitated, her curiosity warring with her vow to always, always stay out of it. Still, it was strange. If Grant had children, he’d certainly never mentioned it before. In her experience, people who had kids couldn’t stop talking about them—how good they were, how bad they were, how underfoot they were or how much they missed them.

Her mind sifted through the possible scenarios. She had the impression he was divorced—though she couldn’t pinpoint what made her think so. Perhaps she just couldn’t believe a man like him could have reached his thirties without getting scooped up by some lucky lady. But he’d never hinted anything about children.

Maybe he had siblings, and those siblings had kids. Or maybe he was divorced, and he’d lost custody for some reason. Or maybe, like Kevin’s runaway ex, he’d left his family behind to pursue his dream of a horse ranch in Colorado.

Or maybe...

She shook herself irritably. Maybe it was none of her business. She knew all too well that when a person imposed total silence on a subject, those wishes should be respected.

For instance...heaven help anyone who brought up Clover’s death with her.

Molly had begun to strain at the strap that held her in the baby seat. As she squirmed, she grew red-faced, and the whimpering escalated into full-blown crying.

“Sweetheart.” Crimson stroked the baby’s cheek. “Poor little thing.”

Grant glanced at his watch. “Maybe I should go see what’s keeping Kevin. I’ve got to get back to the ranch. With all this rain, I’m worried about the stable roof. Any chance you could...”

She was already unfastening Molly’s strap. She lifted the warm, damp baby out and folded her up against her shoulder.

“Of course,” she said, patting Molly’s back. She was well aware he hadn’t been asking if she’d pick up Kevin. “How about if I take your truck because you’ve got the car seat, and you take my car? I’ll stop by the pharmacy and grab a teething ring and then meet you back at the ranch. If I get there first, I’ll feed her, change her and put her down for a nap.”

“Perfect.” He nodded. “Mine’s right out front, so you won’t have to get wet.” He frowned, glancing at the front windows. “You drive carefully, though, okay?”

“I will. The truck’s four-wheel drive will be safer in this weather, anyhow.”

And wow, what weather, even for late May! The rain had grown steadily more intense while they were in the café. She’d heard about these wet Silverdell springs. The gully-washers were mostly short-lived and profoundly welcomed by the ranchers, who appreciated the free irrigation—as long as none of their own gullies got washed out.

Plus, the storms apparently were a boon for the wildflowers. She’d been hearing for weeks about how, if the drought continued, the annual wildflower festival might have to be canceled. Apparently, that would be a historic failure for Silverdell, and everyone had been eying the skies glumly, calculating the chances of rain.

“I’ll be careful,” she promised again, holding out her key ring. “You do the same, even if Kevin keeps you waiting and you’re ticked off.” She held his gaze sternly, daring him to deny he could get impatient behind the wheel, especially when he wanted to get home to check on the horses. “Deal?”

He smiled. “Deal.”

From her perch on Crimson’s shoulder, Molly wailed, suddenly at the end of her rope. Standing quickly, Grant leaned over and planted a firm kiss on Crimson’s cheek.

“Thanks, Red,” he said. “You’re the best. Be good to Auntie Red, kiddo.”

He patted Molly’s head perfunctorily as he moved away. He had paid and disappeared to the notes of “Danny Boy” before Crimson could even get the baby reinstalled in her carrier. Molly definitely wasn’t happy to be strapped in again, but she had found her fingers and begun to suck on them.

Crimson watched as Grant’s silhouette dashed past the front windows, his head ducked against the rain. He appeared in one window, then another, then the third, and then he finally disappeared.

“Interesting, isn’t it, sweetheart?” She bent low to rub Molly’s pink button nose with her own. “I’m pretty sure our friend Mr. Campbell is allergic to crying babies. What I can’t quite figure out...”

She glanced back at the windows, but no one else was walking past, not in this weather. All she could see was a thick sheet of silver rain that sparkled as it caught the reflected brilliance of streetlights that had blinked on, fooled into believing it was night.

“What I can’t quite figure out is why.”

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER SHE LEFT the tattoo parlor, Becky drove around Silverdell for a long time.

Even when the storm broke, she didn’t stop driving. She cruised down Elk Avenue, around the square and over to Callahan Circle, which Dellians always just called Mansion Street. She didn’t stop when she got to the blue French château with the mansard roof, even though she’d called that particular mansion home for twenty-one years.

She didn’t even look at it. Didn’t make any difference whether her dad was home or not—she wasn’t going to stop. She just kept driving. North, and then west onto Cimarron Street. After that, she went back into town to start the figure eight all over again.

Truth was, she really, really didn’t want to go back to Rory’s apartment. He was going to be mad about the tattoo...or the lack of a tattoo. And when he was mad, it was awful.

It was actually more awful than it ought to be, considering he didn’t scream or yell or break things. She almost wished he would. At least that kind of anger made sense.

Her dad was a yeller. He blew up like the storm that was turning Silverdell black as an eclipse right now, flooding the streets and shaking the traffic lights as if it wanted to yank them from their wires. But, like this storm, his anger blew over. Things might be damp and uncomfortable for a while, but the sun always came out again eventually.

Rory was different. He didn’t ever let loose. He got snake-eyed and sarcastic, but behind those curled lips and cold eyes, you could tell the same storm was raging. It just didn’t have an outlet, so it never blew itself out. It kept building, and it spit out in little scalding spurts, like when you overheated grease in a pan. It shot out in small, oddly painful insults, in little unexpected cruelties.

As her car sped through a pool of water so deep it sprayed out like a white fan from her tires, she realized she was going too fast. She had a headache from peering through the rain, and she’d been gripping her steering wheel so tightly her hands hurt.

Consciously flexing her fingers, she took several deliberate deep breaths. She should go home. So what if Rory was mad? She lifted her chin. She wasn’t afraid of him. That wasn’t why she didn’t want to go back. She wasn’t afraid of anybody.

It was just that, when Rory was mean, she didn’t like him very much. And when you loved somebody, it hurt to discover you didn’t like them. It hurt a lot.

Still...the later she showed up, the madder he’d be. And besides, where else did she have to go?

Half-consciously, she slid her hand into her jacket pocket, where she’d put the card that nice woman at the tattoo parlor had given her. But she almost had to laugh at how naive that was. Crimson Slash couldn’t be her real name. But anyone who chose a name like that for herself wasn’t likely to be Mother Teresa.

Which proved that, however nice she seemed, Crimson Slash hadn’t been serious when she said Becky should call her if she needed help.

If Becky were stupid enough to take the offer seriously, the woman probably wouldn’t even remember who the heck Becky Hampton was.

Suddenly, a traffic light swam at her out of the turbulent black ocean of the sky. The light was red. Her heart jumped, hot and huge, and tried to explode in her throat.

She stood on her brakes...belatedly hearing her father’s voice warning her never, never to stop too fast in the rain.

With a sickening awareness that her tires were only barely connected to the tarmac, Becky felt her car fishtail, as if it were hinged in the middle—and not under her control at all.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God...

She’d barely had time to register fear when, like a miracle, her tires gripped the road again, and the car shuddered to a stop.

Her eyes darted to the rearview mirror, and she prayed she wouldn’t see headlights barreling toward her like white bullets. One second...two seconds...

Nothing. She raked her hands through her hair and made a strange, gulping sound. She was going to be okay.

For several seconds, she sat there, thanking God and trying to stop her hands from shaking.

When the light turned green, she didn’t want to take her foot off the brake, but she had to. She’d be a sitting duck if she waited there, immobile and invisible, for some unsuspecting car to smash into. She probably was almost as dumb as her father always said she was...but she wasn’t that dumb.

Somehow she reached Cimarron Street. Apartment Alley was this one’s nickname, because one anonymous building after another was lined up there, shoulder-to-shoulder and face-to-face. Instead of circling through, this time she turned onto Coyote Lane, where Rory lived.

Where she lived, too, she reminded herself. This was home now—not Mansion Street. And that was okay. Compared to splatting herself all over a rain-drenched road, Rory and Coyote Lane had started to look pretty good.

* * *

MOLLY FELL ASLEEP on the way back to Grant’s ranch, probably lulled by the rain pounding against the truck’s roof and the rhythmic swishing of the windshield wipers.

Crimson, who needed to concentrate on maneuvering the flooding streets, was relieved. If she’d had a choice, she would have pulled over and waited out the storm, but Molly was hungry and uncomfortable, and Kevin hadn’t packed enough bottles to see her through such a long afternoon.

She drove no more than ten miles an hour the whole way, aware of her priceless cargo and the treacherous nature of slippery roads. Luckily, Grant’s truck rode high on its big tires, and its bright red paint would be fairly easy for other drivers to spot, even in this monochromatic, underwater gray world.

Once Crimson crawled out of Silverdell and onto the winding rural road that led to the ranches west of town, the traffic thinned out nicely, and the wild rain eased to a simple downpour. Way up ahead, just above the horizon, she could even glimpse a sliver of blue sky.

It felt symbolic, somehow. She might be caught in a storm, but there was light up ahead. Hope still existed. All she had to do was get there. For some inexplicable reason, for the first time since Clover died, Crimson believed she might make it.

As she neared the last real intersection with a traffic light before everything turned to rolling acres of pasture, she began to hum under her breath, choosing a sweet old lullaby her mother used to sing. It had been Clover’s favorite.

Sleep my child, and peace attend thee, all through the night.

Guardian angels God will send thee, all through the night.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the air was filled with a horrible shrieking sound...as if an eagle was dying. Some part of her mind understood it was a car horn, a desperate, endless, metallic warning. And then a crash so abrupt it was more like a bomb. Just a loud, terrifying, glassy explosion, followed by ominous silence.

Ahead of her, the rain filled with smoke, or dust, or... She smelled burning rubber. She touched her brakes, somehow forcing herself not to panic and slam them. The truck slowed down and then stopped just as she drew close enough to see what lay in the road in front of her.

Oh, dear God.

That mangled mass of silver wreckage...that was her car.

Molly was crying now. Crimson dimly heard it, but she was fumbling with her cell phone, dialing 911, and she didn’t have time to do more than murmur a numb, “It’s okay, baby” before she had to talk to the operator.

As she stammered out the details, she was automatically easing the truck onto the right of way. She tucked it safely behind a tree, so no one could accidentally clip it going past, and then she opened the door and went streaking out into the rain.

Another car was in the road, too. A bigger one. Black. Expensive. A man stood by it, his cell phone in his hand.

“I didn’t see them,” he said to her, in the monotone voice of someone in shock. “I didn’t see them.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him. She ran to her car, drenched and shaking and numb with cold.

“Grant!” She rushed to the driver’s side, the side that had been T-boned by the big black Mercedes. The door was crumpled like an old tissue.

“Grant!” She banged on the window, willing the man slumped over the air bag to raise his head and tell her everything was all right. But it wasn’t all right. It couldn’t be, not with the door like that, and the man so limp, his dark brown hair falling forward, obscuring his face...

His dark brown hair...

It wasn’t Grant. It was Kevin. Kevin had been driving. She glanced at the passenger seat, not breathing. It was empty. It was empty.

Her heart began to beat quickly. “Grant?”

“Yes. I’m here. I’m all right.”

He appeared suddenly on the other side of the car, as if he’d rolled out, and then dragged himself to a standing position. His shirt was muddy, clinging to his shoulders, and he held one arm strangely, clutching the elbow with the other hand and propping it across his chest. Above that, his hard-boned face was pale, his golden-brown hair drenched, water streaming down his cheeks.

“Are you all right?” The bulk of the car was between them, and she couldn’t think how to fix that. She couldn’t think at all. “Are you hurt?”

“No. But Kevin’s unconscious. I’ve called 911, but—”

“I called 911, too,” the man from the Mercedes said. “Are you okay?”

Grant ignored him. He kept his eyes trained on Crimson, as if she were the touchstone that kept him focused, kept him from sinking back into the mud. “Where is Molly?”

“In the truck. She’s fine. We’re fine. Is Kevin—” Her teeth chattered, as if it were deepest winter, and she couldn’t form words. Not that word. It was not a word you spoke aloud. It couldn’t be true, anyhow. It couldn’t be true.

She put her hand against the window, as if she could touch Kevin through the glass. But Kevin wasn’t aware of her. His face was turned sideways, pointing toward the passenger seat, and she couldn’t tell how badly hurt he was.

“Oh, God,” she said. “Kevin...”

“He’s breathing. It’s okay. He’s breathing.” Grant started to take a step, as if to come around the back of the car. As if he wanted to comfort her. But something was wrong with one of his legs, and he stumbled, falling against the hood with his bad arm.

He groaned, clearly in agony.

“Grant.” A pain shot through her own chest, as if she could feel what he felt. His contorted face was so tortured she could hardly bear to look at it. His arm must be badly broken.

“He’ll live, Crimson,” he said thickly. “I promise.”

And with a low moan, he slumped to the ground and out of sight.

Every part of her body felt cold and numb and strangely distant, as if she weren’t really here. As if she might, please God, be dreaming.

Dimly, she heard Molly wailing from the truck. In front of her, Kevin was still slumped over the wheel, motionless. Unconscious, unresponsive, unaware.

And Grant... She couldn’t see him at all, and somehow that was the worst, as if she were an astronaut free-floating in space, her lifeline snipped in two.

The emptiness of infinite space roared in her ears, and she wondered if she’d gone deaf.

But then, finally, she heard the noise she’d been waiting for, the one sound her ears, her heart, her entire soul had been listening, straining, praying for.